


Part Of Me

by terryh_nyan



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Hangover, Hurt/Comfort, Language, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 20:29:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terryh_nyan/pseuds/terryh_nyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Rose is haunted by old ghosts, Kanaya forgets how to lay down, Karkat doesn't know what the hell is going on, and Dave is basically the happiest guy in Paradox Space.<br/>Set after the alcohol + stairs incident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Part Of Me

**Author's Note:**

> Whew. It's been a long labour, but here it comes at last. The first part in particular was a bit though to put down, hope I didn't mess it up.  
> Still not native, still very appreciative of helpful comments (or any comments at all for the matter, really)! :3 Hope you like it!

That night, neither the concussion nor the unhealthy amount of alcohol could stop her from dreaming. It was one of her rare, normal dreams, the ones she was no more used to having, not since her house had taken a meteor shower a couple of years before. And, oddly enough, that’s exactly where she found herself in her sleep: her former home, neat and white as she remembered it.

Yet, something was off. Almost as if there were some sort of background buzz, so faint, yet constant, the very air seemed to taste somewhat different to her. Rose gazed behind her, out of the window at the end of the hallway. Surprisingly, it wasn’t raining. Or it should’ve been surprising, at least – Rose still couldn’t tell why she’d expected there to be unusually blinding sunlight outside, while most of her childhood she had spent indoors due to the unmerciful weather.

She advanced through the corridor. It was almost like her senses knew something her brain was still only peripherally aware of. It didn’t seem to be getting any clearer until she ventured towards her bedroom’s door. Her first impulse was to knock. Which was strange since, hello, _her_ bedroom. She drew back her hand, puzzled, and made her way inside, as careful as possible to keep her step light. None of that made sense to her, and it was starting to get annoying, playing by some unspoken rules she felt like she was supposed to follow but didn’t understand why. Rose didn’t like being in the dark.

The dawn stung like a needle when she looked inside.

The ball of blonde hair and lilac fabric curled up on the bed couldn’t be more than, what? Twelve? Hardly. She slept folded like a badly crafted origami, her face buried into the pillow, warm in the embrace of her own arms.

Some days were seared into her brain with such clarity she didn’t even need more than a couple details to tip her off. Honestly, it baffles her she didn’t get there sooner.

You can’t pinpoint the exact day a child starts closing in herself. Yet, if Rose Lalonde had to pick such day for herself, it would be this one. It one was the last of the few fights she and her mother ever had, although she supposed the term “fights” didn’t exactly fit, as they would never leave the walls of her own head. They’d always start days before the moment they’d actually lash at her so violently all she could do was sleep them off: the drops that’d fill the glass to the brim would be unspoken words, unexplained things, unprocessed doubts – foolish, in hindsight, but an issue nonetheless to her younger self. Normally, strong of the wisdom of age, Rose would call it a shared responsibility between two people who never learnt to communicate properly.

Except, now, she can’t.

She’d never allowed herself to linger on certain emotions, not ever since _that_ day. She’d buried them, dismissed them, so that they never would come to light again; dreaming about them now just made her feel guilty to the point of wanting to throw up. She didn’t want to entertain certain thoughts again, but younger-Rose’s feelings keep throbbing through her own chest and her breath was coming in so fast, so how could her?

They would never argue about the real cat in the bag, her mother and her, but Rose remembered all too well how it felt like every time she’d had to smother it back inside. A sense of powerlessness twisted in her stomach, along with a feeling of responsibility heavier than summer rain.

It’d gotten so overwhelming, over the years, that not thinking about it was the only way she’d managed to keep herself sane. Not thinking, and carrying on so that it wouldn’t bother her ever again. Eventually, as the bottles of their liquor cabinet numbered down, so did the tears she shed, hitting zero where the wine never really did.

She’d always known, even then, her mother had a problem. People didn’t come flawless, neither she thinks she would’ve wanted them to. But one person’s flaws can easily become the holes water stars flooding in through in another. Young Rose had never felt angry so much as, and she’s ashamed to even voice it in her own, old mind, _burdened_.

Screwing up had never been an option in her book, not when the only person she could’ve counted on had enough problems by herself, to the point that the pressure slowly became part of Rose’s own weight. The burden had gotten so familiar to her, she eventually started looking for excuses to keep it on her shoulders and not having to deal with the meaning of its loss: her friends needed her to be lucid, ready to think straight had the situation required it, especially with the goddamn gamepocalypse nigh. That was one of the main reasons she’d never indulged in alcohol in the first place.

Well, that is, until now. Until it became all she could do to feel her again, even so slightly.

Rose loved her mother. She’s sorry she didn’t realise sooner just how much; sorry she couldn’t raise a finger to protect her the way she’d always done; sorry she can’t stop certain thoughts from her past from haunting her now that they matter less than nothing. Rose is sorry for too many things, and always too late.

That regret is also why she isn’t allowed to screw up anymore.

 

Rose blinks awake to a massive headache. Which must’ve felt lonely and therefore called some other ache-friends over for a slumber party. Her every limb is screeching like the skin of a masochist with burns, only she doesn’t find it remotely as pleasant; even the back of her head seems to be throbbing with complaint. Her neck is, on the other hand, blissfully numb, and at least she doesn’t feel too cold despite her not-so-covering dress. Still, hadn’t she listened to Dave’s raps, she’d probably come to the conclusion there was no worst kind of pain human body could endure without wanting to tear itself apart spontaneously. Hangover must make her overdramatic, amongst the other, above listed, unpleasant things.

It’s not until she notices a faint glimmer of light emerge from the side of the bed – how did she even get to her room, anyway? And why does she have a dark cape on her shoulders, for the matter? – that it occurs to her she’s not alone.

A luminescent face arises, with a rustling of covers and a tiny, confused sound. The sleepy figure of Kanaya Maryam unfolds from what looks, to euphemize, like a very uncomfortable position to spend the night in.

“Oh! You’re awake…” she mutters in a low, relieved voice. “I didn’t really know what an inebriant substance-induced slumber average length would be for a human, so I wasn’t sure when you’d wake up”. She says those words in the most tranquil tone possible, and yet she seems to decide they didn’t quite come out as she meant them to. “Not that your sleep was unnaturally long or anything. It was actually rather ordinary, I suppose…”

Rose isn’t paying attention to the troll girl’s babbling. To be honest, she’s still struck to find her there in the first place. Bent over her bed with nothing but a chair to rest on, and after such a disaster of an evening. So struck, in fact, her mouth hangs vaguely open until she manages to shake herself, partly to put Kanaya out of her misery, and asks, adding a brand new meaning to the word ‘surprised’: “Did you stay here the whole night?”

“I meant to check on you to make sure you’d be okay. I was worried you hit your head too hard. I guess… I must’ve fallen asleep sometime during that” Oh.

So she’d fallen. She supposes that actually explains a lot of things.

Kanaya shifts in her chair. “Also…” she adds, with a trace of guilt: “… It’s just so embarrassing—”

“More embarrassing than me drinking myself stupid on our first date?” Rose raises an eyebrow. And, yes, since some memories of the night before have started creeping back to her mind, she figures she can safely use the word ‘date’. It’s not like she hasn’t blown it already. “Allow me to doubt it”.

Kanaya offers a shy smile to that. “It has been fascinating to watch the effects of your so called ‘alcohol’. Perhaps too fascinating”. She moves her gaze to her fingers, restlessly tormenting the fabric of her skirt. “I could say it made me even more curious about the taste of it, in the worst moment imaginable. I also meant to apologise as soon as you’d awoken”.

Rose doesn’t need more than a few seconds to process the meaning of the troll’s words. She may be hung-over like a Russian in Siberia’s winter but she can still do the math.

A corner of her lips lifts slightly. “You drank my blood, didn’t you”.

Kanaya’s cheeks flush jade. All the answer she needs.

“And then you stayed”. She doesn’t need to hide the wonder spreading from her tone. “You also brought me back to my room”.

“Dave helped. Paraphrasing, he said he heard a noise resembling a homeless person tripping over an Earth percussion instrument at 1AM and couldn’t help peeking”.

Rose shakes her head in amused disbelief. “I will have to remember to send him a fruit basket. Or an apple juice bottle”. She brushes her fingertips over the fabric over her shoulders.

“I am confident he said something about that too”.

Rose laughs. A few instants of silence linger around the two of them, and not an awkward one. It’s almost companionable. At least, it would be if a not insignificant amount of shame weren’t making part of Rose wish to curl up in a ball of misery and remain there for the year to come. But honestly, she doesn’t think she’s anywhere recovered enough to care just yet. Something else entirely has taken a hold of her mind.

“I don’t think I will ever be able to find the words to thank you enough. After my behavior, last night, I would’ve perfectly understood if you never wanted to see my face again. Really not my finest moment”.

“I don’t believe I could ever do that,” Kanaya hurries to reply. “Besides, you said it yourself, it was a moment. ‘Moments’ can happen to anyone”. She’s smiling as she says so, that honest smile Rose has only ever seen on her face, hers and no one else’s.

As Seer of Light as she can be, Rose Lalonde must admit she’s never seen it coming. _This_. For her to end up considering herself so lucky to be stuck on a meteor in paradox space.

So, so damn lucky. “I see. I’ll do my best to make it stay that way. Still… were there to be another time in which you’d find yourself vigil on my bedside, for any reason at all,” she leers, “you should definitely keep something in mind”. Kanaya raises her eyebrow, questioning, and Rose moves closer, their noses practically touching. She’s never been a big fan of green but she’ll be damned if she’s ever liked it more. “I _will_ consider it rude if you don’t take proper advantage of the bed”.

Then she leans in.

 

 

BONUS: Several Hours (Perhaps Days) Later

 

“What the fuck is that”.

“Do I look like I know”.

Dave ignores Karkat’s perplexity, instead giving a good look to the “that” that, somehow and for some reason, is right now perched on a chair in the middle of his room. If he didn’t know the chances of getting an appearifier to work on that shitty ass meteor were close to fuck-not-ever, he’d think someone had been switching his stuff with other random stuff. Which still isn’t off the table anyway.

It’s a basket, as far as he can tell. Over it, a very familiar cape is draped. Dave reaches to lift it, a note falls to the ground.

 

_Chivalry is known to be, most of the times_  
_(and mostly in ancient and dark times),_  
_the key to a maiden’s heart._  
_Sometimes, all you get is science._  
_-RL_

 

He wonders if it might be…

Might it be…

Impatience getting the better of his own chivalry – or any manners at all, – Karkat hauls the cape off the basket.

Behind the shades, Dave’s eyes may or may not be glowing with glee.

_Oh._

_Fuck._

_Yes._


End file.
